Ours is not to reason Why
by Kermitfries
Summary: I wrote this story a long time ago. The titans take in a new member but they don't realize the extent of her character. Not a mary sue. The titans are Superboy, Wonder girl, Impulse, Robin, Beast boy, and cyborg.
1. Melinda Thatcher

Author's note - I don't own teen titans, but I do own Bronwyn. This is an old story that I made with a different fanfic persona - lizzy goode. So I'm not stealing it - just republishing it. So I hope I'll get some good reviews. It's completely based on the comic book, but I hope you guys enjoy it.

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I was born in an abandoned church, to a dying woman, devoid of all faith - all hope. It took a whole day for someone to find me. They called it a miracle, miles till the next house, but yet someone heard the cries. A peasant, really, a woman dirt poor, who was forced to go days without food, without water, a shower. And the nights, she barely slept, too conscious of the bitter cold. But yet, she felt obliged to walk these long, lonely miles. She felt a need to save a helpless baby born to a dying woman who had been devoid of all faith.

At times I feel as though it would have been better, easier, if no one had found me. I was a baby, and I'm sure starvation or frost bite would've been terrible…but I wouldn't've understood it. My mind wouldn't process such horror. I wouldn't know death was on its way. I wouldn't have feared for my life.

The woman who found me was poor. She could hardly take care of herself, she couldn't manage a baby. A nearly dead baby. So she walked, miles, to the nearest town and right up to an orphanage. The orphanage was dark, empty of all but the necessities. A few lights, a few blankets. There were only ten children, and the town beside the orphanage had been abandoned. As I grew up, the older kids gossiped about a war. An unofficial war between the citizens of the town. They killed each other, over stupid stuff like moldy bread. It was a poor town, where there were no jobs because nobody could afford anything, nobody could pay help. Those that didn't die in the unofficial war died of starvation or frost bite due to the aftermath. It wasn't pleasant, but perhaps they were better off.

The warden of the orphanage was fat, lazy, and practically useless. The state shipped him food, instead of money. Even then, the children were skinny, only consuming the necessary amount of food. My mother had died, cold and alone, but apparently she had stuffed a piece of paper into the blanket that had been wrapped around me. A single name was in the middle of the paper. Bronwyn. I had no last name and nobody ever cared to give me one.

Sixteen years, I spent at that orphanage. Until a band of superheroes were called. The villain was not in their territory, but I guess they figured, what the hell. Later a kid told me that they had taken a wrong turn and ran into this town. A ghost town, really. They were lost and naturally they went to the only building that seemed to hold life -- the orphanage. Death Row, the kids called it.

They were kind enough, introduced themselves and all. The warden gave them directions and everything, seemingly in a hurry to be rid of them. And then they were on their way out. I had a urge, an obligation. It was the only time I had ever wanted something so bad it hurt. I wanted to go, I wanted to be free of such horrid poverty, such willessness.

The leader, a man of metal, Cyborg, was nice. He flashed a fake smile and started to say that it was quite impossible - a powerless girl, tagging along with a team of heroes. Then a boy stopped him. He wasn't older than me, but I doubt he was younger. They called him Impulse. He had a power I had read about. Chronokinesis. The power to affect time flow. He was arrogant though, and hardly asked permission, even when they were roaming the orphanage, he often disappeared. He joked freely, and seemingly to everyone. Everyone gave him looks though, but if I knew how, I would laugh at his jokes. Laughter just hadn't ever seemed possible before. Such poor orphans simply do not laugh. It's like a law.

"Why can't we?" Impulse asked, appearing genuinely perplexed. "This town," he threw a hand around, toward the town that held no humans except us orphans. "There's nothing here, Vic." Impulse paused, and the silence enveloped the team. "Would you want to stay here, in this ghost town, for the rest of your life, just because you're powerless?"

Cyborg was quiet for a moment, then his defense collapsed. "Alright." He looked at me. I tried to diminish the hopeful look on my face. "You can come with us, but you will never ever be as safe as you are here." I nodded. I understood the dangers of their lives. "Very well."

They had given me a room and everything. It was a big room; it seemed bigger than the whole orphanage had. There was a bed too, king sized, far bigger than necessary. It was soft, and the blankets were nice and warm. The room smelt nice too, a fresh clean smell. The teenagers of the group only lived there on the weekends, and during the week there was no alarm clocks. On the weekends we had to wake up at eight. But I had no super powers, so I doubt it would've matter if I had woken up or not.

Bart always seemed to appear in my doorway on Friday nights, a sheepish grin on his face. But it happened so often, there wasn't anything awkward about it. We would then talk, for a long time, until Cyborg would shout something about an eight o'clock wake up call, and Bart would reluctantly leave. I knew more about that boy than I'd known about anybody. And I suppose he knew more about me than I'd ever told anybody else before. He was easy to talk to, because even if he didn't understand he would still nod and listen.

I did wake up at eight on weekends. I didn't need an alarm clock - my body sort of wakes itself up. I didn't train, not like they did, but I do like to watch.

One night, when I woke up from a nightmare, sweating and panting, Tim was standing there, beside my bed. His face held an uneven scowl, which it usually did, but some how this seemed different.

"I had a dream," he sad suddenly. He hadn't ever told me about his dreams before. "You died in it. But before you did, you told me to watch over Bart and Melinda. I know who Bart is."

Melinda? "Melinda," I repeated. "Melinda Thatcher." Tim raised an eyebrow. "I don't know who that is…the name just sort of…came to me…"

Tim nodded. "I'll run a scan and see if I can come up with any Melinda Thatcher." I nodded and he disappeared through my doorway. He walked softly, so if I hadn't been watching him, I wouldn't have noticed his departure.

I closed my eyes and waited a few minutes but the sleep wouldn't return to me. So I shoved away the blankets and clumsily followed him. Tim was in the main room of the tower, typing away on his laptop. I hadn't ever heard of computers until I came to the Tower. I slowly sank onto the couch beside him, and leaned back. I'm sure Tim noticed me but he didn't comment.

A few minutes went by in silence, then he spoke out. "Melinda Thatcher was reported dead March 15, 1989. The report says she bled to death. She appeared pregnant but there was no baby. She was found in an abandoned church by a peasant."

"An old lady," I murmured.

"Right," Tim agreed. "That same day a new baby was omitted to the local orphanage." He gave me a side ways glance. "That baby was named Bronwyn. That baby was you, wasn't it?" I nodded. "So Melinda Thatcher is you mother." It wasn't rocket science but he said it as though he had really found something. I nodded again. "But you never met your mother. How did you know her name?"

I shrugged. "I don't know."

Alright, so the truth is - I saw everything Tim had saw, in his dream. As he was telling me it, the images were invading my mind. But I still couldn't explain away how I knew my mother's name. So that's not usual, right? Seeing these images and knowing things that…well - things you shouldn't?

I didn't tell anyone. Not even Tim or Bart, the two that I seemed to be getting on the best with. Tim sure was a difficult one. I mean, he doesn't talk, not really. And his face is always so devoid of emotions that he's always a hard one to read. He's tough, though, one you can always count on. Which isn't always a good thing, it's quite a bit of pressure to put on a teenager.

Bart was completely different. He liked to talk, especially when he was in pain, or scared. And he did show his emotions often, whether he planned to or not. And I think that's what makes me like him so much. He's a normal kid, really. A normal kid who can run really fast.

They are training now. I'm not. Some of the members felt I should, I mean, I was part of this team, wasn't I? But Cyborg stated his doubts as bluntly as possible. I wasn't strong enough. This course wasn't built for normal humans, and that's what I was. A normal human. I didn't argue; though perhaps Cassie and Conner took my silence as sulking. I don't sulk.

I was sitting quite a distance away from the training grounds, but still I could see them. They were all quite good. I couldn't imagine ever succeeding at any one of those tasks. Bart appeared beside me, and collapsed down onto the stone ledge I was sitting on. He looked worn out. "Hey," I greeted. The greeting was new to me and felt foreign in my mouth. I wasn't all that used to talking so much.

"You alright?" Bart asked. His face was serious. It looked weird, without a smile.

"I'm fine," I answered. I just have a weird feeling, I wanted to say. But I didn't. Sixteen years of silence is hard to break. "I'm fine," I repeated, instead.


	2. War is just a successful failure

"Stand up." I glanced up. I don't know if it was because suddenly Bart learned to walk a whole lot lighter or I was really distracted, but I hadn't noticed him before.

My head jerked up instinctively at his voice. "Huh?"

A smirk crossed Bart's face and he didn't try to deny the smile. "you're apart of our team now," he stated. "So stand up. I want you to start taking apart in things."

"What are you talking about?" I asked, standing anyways.

"I know you don't have powers," Bart began. "And unless we can cause some major life altering accident that just might end in your death, you probably won't ever get powers but I think you should still be assimilated into this team. So I am volunteering to teach you some of the things that Vic teaches us."

"What good will that do?" I asked pessimistically.

"Tim has no powers," Bart said. "But what he does have is reflex and skills. And neat little gadgets too. All you have to do is learn a few things about the art of Martial. And I wanna teach you them. Do you object?"

I shook my head. Fighting would be effectively useful, even if I never do end up helping out the team. I'd never feel insecure again. "Alright. I'm up for it, if you are, Bart."

I know, in the few months I have lived here, that most of the team figures Bart to be a bit impulsive, a bit immature. I know they probably have great reasons for their opinions, because he is all those things, and they have known him far longer than I have. But as it turns out, Bart is a rather efficient teacher. He demonstrates quite well, and then he almost grills me until he's satisfied. Until I have the moves right. He has little activities to help my reaction time, like video games. My reflexes are shot to hell because I've been living in the dark for too damn long.

Bart knocked my feet out from under me again and I fell hard. Evidently Vic thinks repetition is the way to success. Evidently he doesn't know me because success is practically impossible in my eyes. "Dude -" Bart began, bending down to help me up again.

Cyborg poked a head into the room. "Hey," he said. Bart jerked his head up, pulling me to my feet all the way. "What are kids doing?"

"I'm teaching her how to fight," Bart answered. He was honest. I haven't met many humans, but I'm pretty sure out of all of them -- Bart is the only completely honest person I've ever known. I'm not sure if that's because he's actually concerned or because he doesn't care at all. Hell, it could be both.

"Why?" Cyborg asked.

"Because she's a team member," Bart answered defensively. "And we all know how to fight - now it's her turn."

Cyborg nodded. "Alright. Fine. Just clean up when you're done in here." Cyborg nodded his head in my general direction before going back up the stairs. That is right. We were in the 'basement' of the tower - in one of the many training rooms.

"Let's go at it again," Bart said right after Cyborg had closed the do. I shrugged, bending my knees and parting my legs - trying to brace myself for the onslaught of physical violence. I lifted my hands the way Bart had showed me the first day we began this. Bart did the same. He came at me first, because evidently it was best to let the opponent strike at you first. Bart was giving me the benefit of the doubt. He threw an easy punch, the first one he'd ever taught me to defend. I lifted both my hands, blocking his strike.

Bart had this unique style of fighting. He was smooth but blunt too. A street fighter. Tim was more calculated, not quite so…I guess impulsive. I twisted my hands as quick as I could, to get a grip on Bart's now vulnerable outstretched arm. I grabbed his wrist. He said you should never let an opponent get more than a few feet from you, because the further away they go - the more force their hits acquire.

Bart pulled back when I pulled him forward. He lifted his leg just as I lifted mine and he blocked the knee I was going to send to his gut. When his foot touched the ground he hooked it around my ankle and quickly pulled it forward - sending me to the ground once more. But this time I was still holding Bart, and he fell too. He landed on me, his elbow digging painfully in my ribs.

"Sorry," Bart said immediately, quickly (and I mean in a flash) climbing to his feet. He didn't help me up this time but I dragged myself to my feet. "Wanna have another go?"

"No," I murmured. "My body hurts, Bart. I've never exercised this much ever. It's going to take time but tearing down my muscles over and over again is getting a bit excessive. I'm going to go take shower." I said heading for the door.

"Want me to come too?" Bart called as I left through the door.

"You wish," I called over my shoulder. This whole joke system really threw me off - in the beginning. I don't know what happened in the time between then and now but I think I like it. I like feeling what I assume is laughter beneath my surface. I don't laugh though. I don't remember how. But Bart laughs. He laughs enough for the both of us. I've never seen such a joyous creature before.

Back at the orphanage we were allowed showers but somehow here, in this tower, it was different. When I came out of the shower I actually felt cleaner, refreshed, relaxed. It was almost blissful. When I returned to my room Bart was laying on my bed, flipping through a magazine.

He glanced up when I entered the room, closing the door behind me. "Think you took a long enough shower?" He asked, returning to his magazine."

I shrugged, slowly sinking into one of the chairs the titans had given me. "Yes, the shower was adequate in legnth," I answered seriously.

Bart looked up again and smirked. "You're like a foreigner," he said suddenly. "Y'know. Like the titans have introduced you to all of these American customs that has been around for decades. You were barred from the world for sixteen years, Bronwyn."

I nodded. "I never minded it before."

"You weren't ever bored?" Bart asked. It was a question, something that Bart would ask. He was always distracted, always doing something. Bart hated sitting around, he hated being bored.

I shook my head. "In the orphanage, I didn't know what boredom was. I liked to keep busy though. I read a lot. All the books in the orphanage, in the town. Everything piece of paper I could find. And after that was done, I was introduced to boredom."

Bart nodded. He stared down at the magazine but his eyes weren't moving. He wasn't reading. "Tim told me about you mom," he said.

"Oh," I murmured. "Why?"

"Why didn't you ever tell me about you mother?" Bart asked. I couldn't identify the emotion that distorted his facial features but it was unfamiliar -- on his face. "When I was unloading on you about my family, why didn't you ever mention your own?"

I shrugged. I hadn't ever thought about telling him about my mom - about how I dream about her every night; and the words she'd whisper to me every single night, forcing me out of a dead sleep into the morning light. Those thoughts were tucked too tightly within my head, they never even crossed my mind in consideration of telling him. "I don't have a mother. That's all you need to know."

"Do you remember her?" Bart asked.

"I wasn't even a day old, Bart," I told him. "To remember her is impossible."

"Are you sure?" Bart asked, pressing harder against me with his eyes.

"Alright, Bart," I sighed. "She's in my dreams. So what?"

"How'd Tim dream about her, Bronwyn?" he asked, but I knew he'd already figured out the answer.

"I don't know," I mumbled. "I was dreaming about her and…" I shook my head, looking away. "Everything he told me - all the things he described in his dreams…I knew he'd dreamed what I'd dreamed. I don't know how."

Bart shook his head. "That's not normal, Bron..."

I tried to force the smirk that had crossed my face to my eyes. "Are you calling me a freak?" I asked.

Bart shook his head then paused. "Yeah, I guess I am," he admitted. "But what if this is like…I dunno, some kind of power. What if this is your gift."

"What are you talking about?" I asked seriously. "Nice gift - dreaming about dead people. Real swell."

"Is that all you dream about?" Bart asked. "You dream about your mom -- every night?"

I nodded. "She is in all of my dreams."

"But are the dreams about her," he pressed.

I thought back hard, raking my brain hard for past dreams. "No," I answered honestly. "Very few are actually about her."

"So this is like, I dunno, premonitions then?" Bart asked. Somehow the smile he'd conjured happened to reach his eyes.

I shrugged. "Sometimes.," I admitted. "I dreamt about that war, back in town. I dreamt about it for five years before it ever happened. I could see the bodies that littered the streets even before the orphans started gossiping. I could see the flesh and hear the screams as that flesh was being burnt off of them…"

Bart's eyes narrowed. "After these dreams, don't you ever feel compelled to do something. To stop it?"

I shook my head. "I'd never dreamt about something I felt I could stop. That war was inevitable. Those people were starving, they would've died anyway. A mere child of six couldn't possibly understand it, let alone stop it. Humans make up for failed attempts at crime with successful attempts. It is an endless deadly cycle."

"But people," Bart began. "People like us, we put dents in those cycles. We make a difference, Bronwyn."


End file.
